Poetry
Veil of perdition Cynthia Balea
Another day, another broken string Between my dimples which have shoveled Graves of their own to find comfort in forever. If only it were that easy to hide… I’d probably carry a shovel every time I go out Either to plant myself in the ground, Or use it as a lethal weapon. Both being, in all fairness, means of protection Against ever-smiling people, complaisance and small talk. How do I protect me from myself The moments I’ve got no other choice Then warping into what I disgust the most? Commit hara-kiri with a shovel Or start digging into myself Until I reach The unfathomable layers Of what I represent? What do I represent? I’m often called a sweetheart By people who haven’t even gotten A taste of my bitterness, So, next time they see candies, They turn into toddlers Whose teeth are decayed From all that sweets consumption That eventually turns into an addiction. I can’t stand chocolate anymore. Or people who offer it to me Like a portent of sugar-coated words Embroidering their acrid personalities. But the holes remain Just like the aftertaste… And you don’t really feel like smiling When you’ve got dental caries, do you?
The same cliché I’ve been rolling my eyes over Ever since I was toothless: “A smile is the prettiest thing to wear.” Well, I prefer necklaces Or earrings Or frowns Or grimaces Or crossed arms. There’s a plethora of emotions body language And facial expressions can encompass. Why fake happiness Out of being polite And kill the spark With a smile? I guess you’ve figured Why I despise chit-chat in the meantime, But the issue lingers still — Is it really the topic in question Or the people involved? Don’t look at me so Expectantly. I haven’t found the answer I thought I would. Instead, I found a mask — So beautifully adorned That I could not resist. And upon placing it on my visage, It didn’t fit. It required a different type of facial features Than the ones I was acquainted with. I raised my eyebrows, Narrowed my eyes, Stretched the corners of my mouth, Exposed my teeth And became stuck in there forever.
NEW READER MAGAZINE
|
49